



THE LAST BF THE WEIR§ 




DODGE. 



THE LAST OF THE WEIRSMEN. 



A TRAGKDV. 



BY / 

1/ 

Erhest Green Dodse, 

Class of 1893, 
Berea College, Ky. 



5 



/^^S-3^^ 



PUBLISHED FOR THE AUTHOR BY THE 

ELM STREET PRINTING COMPANY, CINCINNATI, O. 

1893. 






TO MISS L. A. SLOAN, PROF. WM.I. THOMAS AND MISS HONOR 
HUBBARD, TO WHOM, MY TEACHERS IN ENGLISH LITER- 
ATURE, I OWE THE AWAKENING OF WHATEVER POETIC 
TALENT MAY BE MINE, AND TO THE MOTHER WHO 
DREAMED OF POETRY BEFORE ME, THIS WORK 
IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED. 



COPYRIGHT, 18i)3, BY ERNEST GREEN DODGK. 



THE LAST OF THE WEIRSMEN. 



A TRAGEDY. 



I. 

Softly the wester eve its mantle threw o'er the 
forest ; 
Softly rose the moon, and, glinting the 
boughs between, 
Lit a palace of ice, all pearls and diamonds and 
torches. 
Yearnfully beckoned the shadows, and flick- 
ered away in the moonlight sheen. 

Boughs all icicle-dressed, a world of crystal and 
beauty. 
Sprinkled and softened to white by the snow, 
the still-fallen snow. 
Faery and fair were the woods, but amid the 
winter-night splendor 
Lingered the while a shadowed spot, the 
close-hung branches below ; 

Shadowed, but shadowed with ice, half dark, 
half tinged with the whiteness. 
Deep 'mid arches and aisles, and mazes, foil- 
ing the sight. 
Stand not without, my song, but enter and 
wait 'mid the shadows ; 
Wait, and mark as the outlines grow and 
clothe in the rising light. 



— 4 — 



II. 



Silently rises the smoke and wavers over the 
dwelling, 
All unswayed by the breeze in the arms of 
stillness asleep ; 
Warmly towers and curls, self-driven, up 
through the night-frost. 
Cheerly and bright is the blaze within, whose 
sparks through the wind-eye leap. 

Now from before the abode, and seen in the 
gathering brightness, 
Windeth a narrow path far into the forest 
bare; 
Narrow, but beaten with footprints, and thither 
and hitherward pointing. 
Ah ! they are all of a measure, and twain are 
the feet that printed them there ! 

Softlier rises the smoke in a blue wreath over 
the dwelHng. 
None is the sound from within, the sparks at 
the roof-hole are none. 
Haply the hands that have kindled care not that 
the flame is failing; 
Haply those feet have strayed without and 
left it to blaze alone. 



III. 



Yes, before the abode, half hid in its lingering 
shadow, 
Standeth a maiden fair, in garb of solitude 
dressed. 
Picturesque as the woods and chaste as the 
heart of a virgin, 
Draping for warmth the heedless arms, for 
virtue the conscious breast. 

Round and perfect the form, new grown to the 
fullness of being. 
Perfect, and waiting for love to crown her life 
with its weal ; 
Such is the maid, whose face shows forth the 
passionate lover. 
Simple in thought, save in homely craft, and 
true as the forged steel. 

Out from her wistful eyes she looks at the win- 
ter-night splendor ; 
Looks at the arches and spires, and mazes, 
that 'wilder the sight ; 
Looks at the feathery snow, that crowns the 
icicled branches ; 
Looks at the shadows that flicker away, or 
hide from the shimmering light. 



— 6 — 

Over the fair young face steals a look of won- 
der and longing ; 
Vainly she watches the shadows, e'en emptier 
now than before ; 
Sighing she looks at the path and thinks of the 
two feet that know it, 
Thinks of the thrice long years that have 
passed since hunter has stood at the door. 

Softly heaving her breast, she turns to enter the 
dwelling. 
E'en as she lifts the curtain and lingers still 
in her gaze. 
Far adown the miles, a score-fold hid from her 
vision, 
Marked is the snow by a stranger foot, half 
lost in the 'wildering maze. 

Cry, my song, for the future, dark as the shade 
of the pine-trees ! 
Cry for a yearning heart whose strife shall 
falter and fail ! 
Cry for the lone one's sorrow, flung as a breath 
to the heavens ! 
Cry for a squandered only hope ! Weep for 
the closing wail ! 

Nay, cry not, my song. As man, and not God, 
taste the future. 
Chance the way shall be fair, and perfect her 
life as a rhyme. 
Chance she will save her hope to the hour of 
her one visitation. 
Chance though she fail will heaven above 
bring healing to wounds of time. 



IV. 

*' Grandsire !" Slowly the old man turned his 
head on the pallet, 
Turned his aged limbs, all bent and wrinkled 
and weak; 
Made no effort to rise, for motion to him was 
grievous. 
Then he opened his out- worn eyes, and looked 
as he heard her speak. 

Dimly from out those eyes he saw a tinge of the 
moonlight. 
Then it vanished away as the curtain fell to 
its place. 
Dimly lit by the blaze, he saw the form of the 
maiden, 
Scarce outlined to his failing sense, yet fair in 
its virgin grace. 

''Grandsire, listen!" she said. " Say on, my 
child, for I hear thee." 
Slow from his parted lips the accents faltered 
and fell. 
"Oh, couldst thou only but see the woods to- 
night in their beauty, 
Icicled, lit by the moon, and haloed with glo- 
ries I never could tell !" 



** Child, it is naught," he said, *' the beauty and 
show thou dost speak of; 
Oft have I seen the same, and better, ere thou 
wast born." 
Then they lapsed into silence, the while the 
blaze in the center 
Flickered and leaped, and then on the wall 
reflickered her sitting form. 

"Grandsire, tell me again, if ever thou think of 
my mother." 
" Child, I have not forgotten. Methinks her 
face I can see. 
Twelve years old is her death, the memory fresh 
as the yestern ; 
Plainer before me to-night she stands than 
ever mine eyes see thee." 

" Tell me, sire, once more those dying words 
of my mother." 
"Daughter, speak, for I hear thee." The 
old man's words came slow. 
'' Was it that ere she died she laid her hands in 
my tresses, 
Blessing me, reading the future, and telling 
the way that my feet should go ?" 

"Child, she laid them there," he said, and 
waited her answer. 
"Said she I should be blessed with a lover 
worthy and tall. 
Seeking me for his bride, and come to me out 
of the far-land. 
True, and fit to clasp me and love me, body 
and soul and all ? 



" Was it that we should dwell in the wealth of 
each other's affection, 
Making ourselves a nest where lone thoughts 
never should stray ? 
Was it that we should bloom into children, the 
boys and the daughters, 
Changing the wild and empty woods to a 
home that shall throng alway ?" 

" Daughter, 'twas even so. Remembering well 
thou hast said it." 
. " Thinkest 'twill all come true?" " Mayhap, 

as the years roll by." 
•' Grandsire, what is love ?" " Ah, child, thou 
art young and a maiden ; 
I am feeble and old," he said, and paused 
with a vacant eye. 

Then she loosened her hair, till it fell and cov- 
ered her shoulders. 
Slipped the shoes from her feet to rest them 
of the restraint ; 
Rose and loosened her robe, till it hung like a 
cloth on her figure, 
Laid the garment of warmth from her arms, 
with stranger gaze unacquaint. 

Then she sat her alone, for the old man listened 
nor heeded. 
Farther apart were they than 'twere if the 
miles were between. 
Stranger, yet bound by a love, they lived in the 
dwelling together, 
She with her longings, and he with his dreams 
of the golden days that have been. 



— 10 — 

" Grar.dsire, listen again, for strani^^^e seemed the 
forest this evening; 
Seemed as the shadows were quick, and not 
as the nightly gloom ; 
Almost seemed they could speak, but sure 'twas 
only a fancy." 
"Daughter, I sleep," were the old man's 
words. Then silence fell in the room. 

So she sat her alone, and watched as the twigs 
of the forest 
Kindled and leaped into blaze, and filled the 
room with their glare. 
Real to her then was the world and the toil- 
marks over her fingers, 
Real that save for their small-built home the 
circling woods were bare. 

But as the blaze died low and left but the glim- 
mering embers. 
Stronger the forms of fancy grew in the un- 
sure light. 
Deeply the old man breathed, and rhythm lent 
to her dreamings; 
Silent she sat and heeded not the moving 
hours of the night. 

Over the long-living embers her bare white arn i 
she extended. 
Warmly the breath of the coals arose an cir- 
cled them o'er ; 
Seemed to her in her dream 'twas the warm, 
true arms of a lover. 
Creeping nearer her heart and th.illing her 
whole self more and more. 



— 11 — 

Now on her bosom a hand is folded, nestling 
and waiting ; 
Faster comes her breath in tune with the 
beating heart. 
Vain were her weekday hand, but now in guise 
of another. 
Now in symbol it makes her thrill and gasp 
and struggle and start. 

So she arose in haste and paced the room all 
a-trembling; 
Seemed as the hours must break that held off 
her wish so strong ! 
All forgetting herself she fumbled the latch of 
her throat-clasp ; 
'Round her heart a dampness fell ; then leap- 
ing it bore her along, 

Till she disparted the clasp and bared her breast 
in the dimness. 
Then quick ashamed of her frenzy she clothed 
her and knelt her in prayer ; 
"Spirit of Stars, forgive!" she said, and rose 
scarce a-trembling. 
" Lover shall find me pure," she said. Then 
she knew that her arms were bare ; 

So, as often for warmth, and now newly first for 
the hiding, 
Took her a mantling shawl and covered her 
form to the hands. 
Then subdued and weak she sat once more by 
the embers. 
Watching with chastened but live-long wish 
the forms in the pictured brands. 



— 12 — 

Was it love in the maid that wrenched the 
chords of her being? 
Nay, those stilly deeps she never had wan- 
dered nigh. 
Nay, Love's angel form had never paused at 
her threshold ; 
Only she clutched at the skirt of her robe as 
the shadow passed her by. 

Over the fast fading embers the forms of 
thought were a-flitting. 
Fair and goblin alike played over each dying 
coal ; 
Till of the shifting throng one form grew clear 
and abiding. 
Watching and dreaming with half-shut eyes, 
she clothed it with flesh and a soul. 

Half she could see the face and half it was 
turned in the shadows. 
Noble and strong it seemed, where truth 
would ever abide. 
Over the chasm of time she saw him beck'ning 
and waiting ; 
" Come ! forever and e'er could I love thee !" 
the still small voice replied. 

Then it vanished away ; the coal broke twain in 
the ashes. 
Lingering still she arose and turned for respite 
in sleep, 
Lying down on her pallet a step removed from 
the old man, 
Sinking at length to a fitful rest while soothed 
by his breathing deep. 



— 13 — 

So as the night wore on they slept in the dwell- 
ing together, 
Knowing not that the moon was dimmed by 
a passing cloud. 
Stillness breathed a sigh that whispered away 
into silence. 
Then a laden bough gave way and fell with 
an ice-din loud. 

" Grandsire, wake and listen ! What noise was 
that in the forest ? 
Something strange in the ice— What! heardst 
thou never a sound?" 
"Daughter, I heard it not, and what were a 
noise such a winter ? 
Oft ere this has the sleet o'erweighed, and 
borne some twig to the ground." 

" Grandsire, sure thou art right," she said, and 
turned to her pillow ; 
"Sure 'twas only the sleet; mayhap I 
dreamed it was more." 
"I, too, would finish my dream. 'Twas naught. 
Go on with thy rest, child." 
Softly the stars through the wind-eye looked 
on their sleep till the night was o'er. 



Yet without in the wild a hunter is waking and 
wand'ring, 
Seeking a kindlier spot to rest from the fruit- 
less chase. 
Look ! a path in the woods ! He turns his foot- 
steps adown it, 
Thinking now at the end of weeks to rest in 
a human place. 



— 14 - 



Stranger, what of thy face ? Methinks there's 
strength in its outHnes ; 
Yes, but the death chased deer ne'er turned 
for pity to thee ; 
Yes, but shouldst thou love, thou'dst speak 
with never a tremor. 
Stranger, I love thee not, as the dawn en- 
lightens thy self to me. 



V. 



•'* Greeting !" Startled sore, the maiden turned 
as she heard it, 
Looked and saw at the doorway, bathed in 
the morning light, 
Handsome, clad as a hunter, the young man, 
even the stranger. 
Yet she dared not answer his word, but 
stepped, and shrank from his sight. 

"Grandsire, speak, oh! speak to the stranger 
there at the doorway !" 
Quickly he strove to rise, but sank to the pal- 
let again. 
"Stranger, enter and rest thee; well art thou 
come to our dwelling; 
Enter, and tell us why thou'rt strayed so far 
from the homes of men." 



— 15 — 

So he entered and sat and rested, and spake 
with the old man, 
Then in the stray of his thoughts he glanced 
where the maiden stood, 
Met her blushing eyes, and marked them droop 
as he watched her. 
Truly he thought her passing fair in her full- 
blown womanhood. 

Yet within her breast a leaden heart was beat- 
ing; 
In the recoil of her frenzy she stood shame- 
faced and weak. 
"Is it lover?" she thought, "and how am I fit 
to receive him ?" 
Then she struggled with self, and won ; yet 
waited, and watched him speak. 

"Eld-sire, it is well that I found thee here in 
the forest ; 
Lonely in truth is thy home, all single out in 
the wild." 
" Stranger, yea, it is lone, and rare are the foot- 
steps of hunters. 
Often they came from the far-land hither to 
hunt when I was a child. 

" Even the daughter here has known the faces 
of hunters. 
Now the woods are forsaken ; the chase is an- 
other way." 
Then he paused and waited, seemed musing 
of times forgotten ; 
In the room were the young man's thoughts, 
though he looked where the old man lay. 



— 16 — 

Something unfamiliar dawned to her view as she 
watched him, 
Something new to her thoughts that she had 
not imaged before. 
Scarce could she read the message, — the faces 
were few of her mem'ry, — 
Yet she closed her opening heart, and waited, 
and pondered it o'er. 

"Sire, I came from the far-land, wand'ring, 
seeking the great-deer. 
Vain as yet is the hunting, though followed 
many a day. 
Empty now of provisions, I tire to wend with- 
out ceasing ; 
Haply I rest me here awhile, and morrow I 
go on my way." 

" Yea, it is well," said the old man, " as long 
as thou wiliest thou'rt welcome. 
Plenty of food is here to lade thee ere thou 

go. 

Stranger, I am of years, and old is my voice 
for communing ; 
Go and speak with the daughter there ; I rest 
me awhile, I trow." 

So he paused and turned, and the young man 
rose in gladness. 
" Only three steps," thought he, *' to where 
the woman stands ! 
Only three steps," thought he, "and I make 
her better than stranger !" 
So he went and looked on her face, and 
reached her both his hands. 



— 17 — 

Trembling sore and thrilled, forgetting all her 
misgiving, 
Warmly she took his hands, and greeted him 
kindly and true. 
Was it not enough that a stranger he came to 
her dwelling ? 
How her heart within her leaped with a feel- 
ing vague and new ! 

" Stranger, I bid thee welcome ! — and lone is the 
life in the forest ! 
Glad is my heart to see tliee, e'en for thy hu- 
man kind." 
Ansvvered, " I too rejoice me, for truly, maid, 
thou art lovely. 
Little I thought thus far in the woods so rare 
a being to find." 

All abashed she stood, half pleased, half 
shocked at the boldness. 
^'Oh, why said he so!" was all her heart 
could say. 
Then she brought him food and set it ready be- 
fore him, 
Standing aloof and watching the while till his 
hunger died away. 

Then as she moved about and did the work of 
the morning. 
Silent he sat and musing, shading his brow in 
part. 
Oft she glanced at his face, for he looked not 
up as she watched him. 
What was that which made her pause and 
gaze with a doubting heart ? 



— 18 — 

Something cold and hard and eager over his 
features ! 
Quickly it faded away, but it left its scar on 
her hope. 
Aching, she turned to her task, and left him 
lone to his musings. 
Listen, my song, to his thoughts, as out of 
the past to the future they grope: 

*' E'en when the moon was old we came from 
the far-land together, 
Hunting, seeking the great-deer, accounted 
the noblest prize, — 
He, the right true-hearted, and I, his oft com- 
panion ; 
Bound together our hearts were then by hun- 
dred kindly ties. 

" Long and vain was our hunt ; the deer crossed 
never our pathway. 
Till, when the moon was young, the covering 
snow-sheet fell. 
Then we hasted and went, for we saw their 
tracks in the whiteness. 
Cautious and slow, with bated breath, we 
stole to the sheltered dell, 

"Ready my hand on the bow, and ready the 
arrow for speeding. 
When, at the edge of the covert, so near as 
to feel her breath, 
Suddenly, face to face, we met the doe of the 
great-deer. 
How she sickened and looked despair when 
she saw her certain death ! 



— 19 — 

'* Then she looked defiance, that would not bow 
though it perish ; 
Made no effort to flee, so near was the slay- 
ing hand ; 
When, as I quickly drew, that comrade leaped 
upon me, 
Struck the bow from my startled grasp, while 
the deer fled away to her band. 

"Then as they all took affright and quickly es- 
caped from the valley. 
We two staid on the spot and spake as never 
before. 
Yea, I withstood him there and each upbraided 
the other ; 
Yea, I smote him down, and strode through 
the woods till my wrath was o'er. 

" Then I returned, half relenting, but found him 
not where I left him. 
And, as the snow fell afresh, the traces were 
covered and gone. 
Somewhere among the miles, a score-fold hid 
from my searching, 
Even to day he wanders yet, or turns his 
steps toward home. 

*' Was it well that we parted, although the part- 
ing was anger ? 
Was it well that the snow its barrier threw 
between ? 
Yea, I deem it well, for else had we journeyed 
together ; 
Else this tender maiden's charms in truth I 
never had seen. 



— 20 — 

" Ha ! could it be that the friend knew aught of 
this cot in the forest ? 
Could he have planned the parting to pluck 
this flower alone ? 
Nay, I do him wrong ; he ne'er did wrong to 
another. 
Nay, and more, for he is not come, and he 
will not,— all is my own ! 

"Fortune is mine, and I take it! I want her 
beauty ; I'll have it ! 
Never, it seems to me now, have I seen so 
fair a face. 
Oh, could I only have come with the antlers 
borne on my shoulders ! 
Then should I not have seemed in her eyes as 
a beggar, craving her grace. 

" Yet I deem it is well, for where will she look 
for another ? 
Poor for a lover am I if I set not her heart 
ablaze !" — 
Breathing fast, he arose, and saw her eyes that 
she watched him. 
Then his time it was to flinch and falter be- 
fore her gaze. 

But as the day wore on he told her out of his 
story ; 
Told not all, but iii part ; but she no word of 
her woe. 
Little the old man said, but the youth spoke 
often together ; 
Till when the even came they replenished the 
blaze and sat in its glow. 



— 21 — 

Deeply the old man breathed and filled the 
roonm with the rhythm. 
Silent the watchers were sitting, buried each 
in his thought. 
"Maiden," he said at length, "I deem the 
father is sleeping." 
" Yea," she answered, and trembled to think 
with what that slumber was frought. 

"Listen, I tell thee the truth: I've seen full 
many a maiden. 
Yet of them all not one has seemed to mine 
eyes so fair. 
Now I deem it well that I choose thee, clasp 
thee, and own thee. 
Lone no longer thy life shall be ; this home, 
but a husband is there." 

Thus he spoke and she trembled ; her life swam 
giddy about her. 
Now she felt she was wanted, the hour for 
which she had prayed. 
Why should she reck of his face, though it be 
not memory's picture ? 
Here a lover was sitting and waiting, and why 
should her voice be delayed ? 

Then he moved closer, she rose, he arose and 
pressed him yet nearer. 
Reached his open arms, but she stepped and 
shunned his embrace ; 
" Nay, hold back thy hands! I have not said 
that 1 love thee !" 
Scarce knowing why, they dropped to his 
side, and a new blush stole to his face. 



— 22 — 

Then she relaxed her heart as she saw him 
stand and obey her. 
Half she repented herself and longed to fall 
on his breast. 
He was a man and young, and she was a woman 
and maiden ; 
Half she longed to feel his strength and there 
at length be at rest. 

"Sir, it may be so, but wait, for thou art a 
stranger. 
Never, never I wed save whither my heart 
doth move. 
Haply 'tis unto thee, but as yet I have not 
known it. 
Go and leave me alone awhile till I my 
thoughts can prove." 

*' Woman, 'tis well thou shouldst take me. 
And wilt thou wait for another ? 
Untrod after 1 leave thee the path behind me 
will be. 
Now I am even here, and yea, thou wilt not re- 
ject me ! 
Is it thy pleasure to wait as I stand here ach- 
ing and burning for thee ? 

"Nay, I say no more ; thy own free willing shall 
do it. 
Thee three days do I give to rejoice in thy 
solitude ! 
Morrow I go to the chase, and thou canst finish 
thy thinking. 
Then I return, and remember well I return to 
do thee good." 



— 23 — 

then with sbfter speech they parted each to 
his resting, 
He to the cot in the corner, o'ercome by 
watching to sleep ; 
She to the old man's side, on the floor, her head 
on his pallet, 
Breathing deeply, too whelmed for thought, 
till she sank to a slumber deep. 

Undisturbed was her rest, for the deepest amaze 
is dreamless. 
No thought passed through the room ; the 
cares of the day were at close. 
Stillness hovered and wrapped them ; the whole 
earth waited the morrow ; 
No eye looked at the time-smitten moon, as 
guilty and late it rose. 



VI. 



One form stood in the room ; the old man lay 
as his wont was. 
Darkness had folded her wings and crept from 
the morning light. 
'' Grandsire, we are alone ; the stranger is gone 
o'er the morrow. 
Now can I freely tell thee all, — for he spake 
with me, sire, last night." 



— 24^— 

''Speak, my child, I will hear thee, whate'er 
thou hast of the stranger." 
So she told him all, arid he listened and gave 
her heed. 
Long together they talked of the past, of her 
hopes and misgivings, 
Till, aweary, he sank in rest and left her still 
in her need. 

Under the touch of her breath his heart's last 
coal from the ashes 
Had for a moment revived, and kindled anew 
into blaze. 
Quickly it spent its life and turned to clay in 
his bosom. 
Scarce did he listen or hear her words, but 
lay in a vacant daze. 

So she turned to herself and bitterly thought of 
the future. 
How, when each path went astra}', could she 
in her darkness decide ? 
Half she doubted to love him ; the still small 
voice never blessed him. 
Yet how long seemed the aching years ere 
fortune again betide ! 

Sweeter to her appeared his love than waiting 
and breaking; 
E'en should it fail, the children would add 
their bloom to her life. 
Sn she struggled and fought, and dared nc't 
come to the vict'ry ; 
E'en when she saw it she turned away and 
plunged yet again in the strife. 



1 



— 25 — 

Till, when the mid-day was past, it all came 
clear to her vision. 
'* Nay, it never can be, though the hope of 
the future is dim. 
Nay, I love him not, though my lone heart 
leaped at the meeting. 
Haply I love his passion and kiss, but never 
do I love him." 

So she grew more cheerly and knew not how 
she was wounded. 
" Grandsire, now it is done; I do not love 
the man." 
'* Daughter, is it thou? Good-night, my daugh- 
ter, I bless thee." 
So she left him still to his rest, and her un- 
touched duties began. 

Not all sad were her thoughts ; she had felt not 
the depths of her wounding. 
Whilst the daylight was hers with victory's 
warmth she was blest. 
Once she paused and trembled, but found for 
her heart new courage. 
Still she busied her to and fro, till darkness 
called her to rest. 

Then she clad for the night, unloosened in part 
her raiment. 
'Round her disprisoned form let darkness a 
sure watch keep. 
So she lay on the couch and thought how yes- 
ter he pressed it. 
Drew the coverlet over and 'round her, and 
thought, " I lay me to sleep." 



— 26 — 

Ah ! but sleep had fled, and came not near to 
her eyelids. 
Thoughts came thronging and whelming to 
trouble her heart's repose. 
Weak was the day to move ; 'tis the strength of 
the night shall crush her. 
Though the hours of light were spent, day's 
labor was not yet at close. 

"Ah me ! What have I done?" was all she 
could think as she lay there. 
*' Even my chance has been no longer to pine 
alone. 
Have I been wrong? Could it be? Yet how 
can I face him and tell him ? 
How can I tell him I love him not when long- 
ing to make him my own ? 

" What may I think of the years that stretch 
out weary before me ? 
Hope is a mockery, sooth, should it bless 
when the need is dead." 
Short to her seemed middle Hfe and old age, dim 
in the distance ; 
Endless the seasons' round wherethrough her 
life^vay next she must thread. 

' Round her heart a vise seemed closing and 
crushing her life out. 
Over each restless nerve the agony hurried 
and thrilled. 
Was it her spirit so hurt that her frame beheld 
it and sickened ? 
Yea, her heart-strings, long o'ervvrought, gave 
a cry that could not be stilled. 



— 27 — 

Hasty she threw back the cover and rose to her 
feet in the darkness, 
Drew the curtain without and looked at the 
gloomy night ; 
Under the forest boughs no eye could fathom 
the darkness. 
Silent and tall the giants stood with their 
branches dim and white. 

Maiden, I see thy face in the stilly dim of the 
starlight ; 
Nature's peace is near thee, waiting to make 
thee whole. 
Over thy face methinks the lines are softened to 
beauty ; 
Yea, thou shall conquer yet this time and win 
thee rest to thy soul. 

So she gathered a shawl around the white of her 
garment. 
Sat her down in the doorway and gazed at the 
sky above. 
*' Father of Stars, look down, and make me 
strong for the waiting ; 
Give me light to know Thy way, and teach 
me love for Thy love ! " 

Lo ! and lo in the east ! the midnight moon is 
risen ! 
Faint is its paly light as first through the for- 
est it streams. 
Now it mounts to the sky, lights softly the 
woods in their beauty, 
Crystaled, cathedraled in ice, and restfuUy 
bathed in the still, floating beams. 



— 28 — 

Small to her then did appear what darkness lin- 
gered around her ; 
Minished and shrinking away, yea, counting 
as naught in her sight. 
Far off shone the heavens, and all the way was 
a moonbeam ; 
Up to the Great White Throne above the 
pathway was strewn with light. 

Thus her life spread out in strange, new mean- 
ing before her ; 
Short are the years of darkness ; the hope be- 
yond them is long. 
Yea, the trial is brief, though it blind the eye to 
the future. 
He who is Father will bring it to pass with 
her who waits and is strong. 

Look ! she clasps her knees and bows her fore- 
head upon them ; 
All the surcharge of her heart, long hoarded, 
flows in those tears — 
Copious tears and free, that fall and moisten her 
raiment, 
Till she weeps herself into rest and peace that 
triumphs o'er fears. 

So she sat on in silence and knelt her head on 
her white robe, 
Looked not up at the night as it turned and 
sank in the west. 
Till when the winter dawn looked down at the 
door of the dwelling. 
Still it found her leaning there, asleep and 
taking her rest. 



— 29 — 

All that day her heart was light with sense of 
o'ercoming, 
Chastened and tinged with grief, but better 
than e'er before ; 
For instead of a girl a woman was thinking and 
doing. 
Now she was ready to send him afar and reck 
of his face no more. 

And when even was come she busied her still 
with her labor, 
Cared for the old man's needs and gave him 
her heed and her thought. 
Dreams that waited to move her came not in 
'mid her duties, 
And when the hour was come she slept, un- 
hindered by heart overwrought. 



When the hunter returned with the antlers borne 
on his shoulders, 
She was at door to meet him, had heard the 
ice-twig break. 
Hunter, look at her now ; thy answer read on 
her features. 
Few were the words that need be said ; he 
knew all ere she spake. 

"Sir, thou knowest well my heart I never can 
give thee. 
Soiled were my hands to touch thee ; the why 
let thy own self tell. 
Yea, I love thee not, though my lone heart 
leaped at the meeting. 
Now as nought but a chance acquaint I bid 
thee forever farewell." 



— 30 — 

Still they talked for awhile, but little they said 
that concerned them. 
Nought could pass between them since they 
were strangers once more. 
Then she gave him food to speed him well on 
his journey. 
When in silence he rose and was gone the 
antlers lay at her door. 

There for a moment she stood and gazed at the 
cast-off trophy ; 
Quick they were seized and lifted and into the 
red blaze cast. 
Round them leaped the flames and burnt them 
down to a cinder, 
And as the stench arose to heaven, she 
watched and buried her past. 



VII. 



When the winter had melted, and moist spring 
dripped from the branches. 
When all the leafy boughs were choral with 
song of bird, 
When through the open doorway gently the 
zephyr was breathing, 
Then from within the narrow abode a quiet 
sound was heard. 



— 31 — 

She was sitting and weaving before the loom in 
the corner, 
Even the little loom that the grandsire made 
long ago ; 
Slowly, — for is there haste? and few are the 
needs that compel her, — 
Steadily sways the beam, and glides the shut- 
tle hither and fro. 

Now she closes her work and steps to the door 
of the dwelling. 
Nature invites her forth from the home to the 
outer joy. 
Wide she opens her eyes to drink in the green 
of the woodland, 
All instinct with color and life, and freshness 
that scarce will cloy. 

So she strays without through the mazy paths 
of the greenwood. 
O'er her the branches rustle and sprinkle her 
face with dew. 
' Round her the flowers smile to tell of the glad 
new season. 
Mosses and lichens and grasses and ferns dis- 
played in varying hue. 

Now she pauses a bit and looks at the* branches 
above her ; 
Two birds are building their nest and lining 
it soft within. 
Birdies, ye do her wrong ; she sighs in the midst 
of the beauty, 
Draws more closely her fore- robe about her, 
and saunters on through the green. 



— 32 — 

Here is the open spot where good things soon 
will be growing ; 
Farther, the work of the ice, these fagots are 
strewn to the ground. 
Stooping, by one and by one she gathers them 
up for her using. 
Still she wanders adown the path where her 
feet so oft have been found. 

Till she comes to the brook soft purling over the 
pebbles. 
Empties her load from her arms, lies down by 
the water's side. 
Now she is young once more, and childhood 
quickens within her ; 
Two bare feet, she stretches them out, and 
dips in the rippling tide, 

Resting her head on her arm and watching the 
play of the wavelets ; 
All of her girlhood's dreams come floating 
back to her soul. 
Out from the great beyond a blessing is drifting 
to meet her, 
E'en as the waters that kiss her feet come 
rippling down to their goal. 

Sweet is the wash of the stream, and the sound, 
the type of forever, — 
Ah ! thou sharp little stone ! She moves, and- 
the touch is pain! 
Now, with the child-mood over, still (rising) she 
looks at the water. 
Draws her shoes to her feet and slowly turns 
to the home again. 



— 33 



All around her the earth is singing the hymn of 
the season. 
Ah ! but she sees nor hears, but saunters 
with listless mien. 
Here but awhile ago she lost herself in the 
beauty. 
Still it is there, but she sees nor hears for the 
veil of thought between. 

Dimly afloat in her mind a half-remembered 
feature 
Seems to be struggling for shape as hitherto 
in her youth. 
Half prophetic it bides ; she opens her heart to 
receive it. 
Is it the voice of the future to her or is it the 
image of truth ? 

** Yea, it will be," is her thought, '' and I must 
wait for the coming. 
Surely and one is sent from Him who my own 
life gave. 
Haply the time is long, but day by day is the 
waiting. 
Ah ! if it should not be on earth ! Still wait; 
there is hope in the grave. 

" So will I save my heart to the hour of its one 
visitation ; 
And if the years should mock, I'll neither for- 
get nor despair. 
There can be cheer in the life, and when the 
deatli shall o'ertake me, 
Then with a spirit well preserved will I pass to 
the life over there." 



— 34 — 

Quickly a voice steals in and gives the lie to her 
promise. 
*' Easy it is to dream, but the time will find 
me out. 
Have I this strength to endure? And if, yet 'tis 
for a shadow !" 
Still ! rude voice ! the peace returns ; let slum- 
ber again the doubt. 

— It was a drearysome morrow ; the rain dripped 
in through the wind-eye. 
Yet the blaze in the center was cheering the 
room with its glow. 
Hour by hour she wove, for the web was nigh 
to the finish ; 
Ever she swung the beam and glided the 
shuttle hither and fro. 

"Long have I worked," she thought, "and now 
I will finish the garment. 
Soon the father shall wear it instead of the 
worn and old. 
Little I hope for words, for it is not so with him 
longer; 
Yet will he move his hands on the garment, 
and then my hands he'll enfold." 

So she wrought with a will, and glad seemed the 
shuttle unto her. 
" Nought is given me now but to think for the 
old man's need. 
Never before was his living so sacred unto me, 
so precious ; 
Now I have nothing, he nothing ; though 
scarcely he know of m\- doings nor heed." 



— 35 — 

Still she wrought with a will and deemed the 
labor a pleasure ; 
Thought not how frail the joy if the old man's 
breath is its spring. 
Now it is ta'en from the loom and the stitches 
are finished around it. 
So she rose and went to his side and brought 
him the new-made thing. 

Smoothly he breathed as she watched him, and 
seemed not heavy with slumber. 
"Grandsire, here is a garment. Look; it is 
new, and thine! " 
Then she touched his hand, but he gave no to- 
ken of answer ; 
Though she called him ever again, he heard 
not, gave no sign. 

Yea, his spirit had flown, or ever the death of 
the body. 
Long she labored to move him ; she labored, 
but could not avail. 
Never again will he heed, or know the touch of 
her fingers ; 
Such was her strange, new loneliness ; her cry 
was a bitter wail : 

*' Father of All, give ear, for now is the time 
that I need Thee! 
While that I needed Thee not, I always 
deemed Thou wert near ; 
Now I am smitten with loneHness, and if Thou 
canst, O Spirit, 
Give me some friend, or if not so yet, send a 
voice that my soul may hear ! 



— 3G — 

"Dost Thou hear to my cry? Or hast Thou 
forgotten me who ly, 
Here where so few have lived to call Thy 
thought from the sky ? 
If Thou canst give me help, I pray Thee, tarry 
not longer ! 
But if Thou wilt do nothing for me, I pray 
Thee, grant me to die ! " 

Yet she died not at all, though she felt in her 
heart no answer, 
Thought she was so forgot that even to die 
was forbid. 
If the Angel of Answer drew near and wept 
with her sorrow, 
She in her pain knew it not, though in more 
silent grief her being was hid. 

Only she heard the wind as it sighed and moaned 
in the forest, 
Bringing a chill of the north and driving the 
remnants of rain. 
Were it indeed a cry of anguish, she could en- 
dure it ; 
Half would it be a companion to her, though 
it tell but of grief and pain. 

But it was nothing real — the voice of the void 
that cared not. 
Minding her of her petition, lost as a breath 
in the air. 
So as the long day wore, the wind still answered 
and mocked her ; 
Only this, that it came from afar. A glimmer 
of hope was there. 



— 37 — 

— Morrow and yet to-morrow and days yet 
further he lingered. 
While he was left her at all, she gave him all 
of her care ; 
While she watched him fail and knew that the 
grave was before him, 
Counting him last she could call her own, she 
clung to his Hfe in despair. 

Night has come to the earth and I see her kneel- 
ing beside him. 
All that she held most precious seems fading 
away with his breath. 
Gently she parts the garment that useless covers 
his bosom, 
Feels its warmth with her hands and clings as 
if staying its flight in death ; 

Tenderly lays her ear to his heart to list to its 
beating ; 
Counts the failing pulse. In silence the mo- 
ments flee. 
Come, turn away from the room and leave them 
alone together. 
Say I together, his soul on its flight ? Come 
away ; it is not for thee ! 



-38- I 



VIII. 

Look at the low-hung pine that stands alone 
'mid the spring trees. 
Look at the grave beneath it, a little with grass 
overgrown. 
Look at the woman's form and the tear-marks 
over her features ; 
List to her thoughts as she lies supine by the 
lonely grave alone. 

" Shall I upbraid myself to have gazed so long at 
the branches 
That I forgot my sorrow, that I forgot to 
weep ? 
That I forgot the grave and my anguish of soul 
for the old man, 
Or that I suffered the grass of hope o'er the 
grave in my heart to creep? 

'•Nay, I upbraid me not. One time I thought 
I could never 
Live when he passed away, but my heart is 
not as of yore. 
Then my thought was divided ; his life was be- 
hind, hope before me ; 
Now the grave to which he is gone is before, 
and hope is before. 



•'So that I am not false to the sorrow that rose 
within me, 
If I look to the future and watch for the lover 
to come. 
Endless ago it seems since first I longed for his 
presence ; 
Now I'm alone, and haply the time draws near 
when the waiting is done." 

Then she arose, went home, but sat down and 
folded her fingers ; 
Little had she to do when but for herself she 
could care. 
So she waited her hope, but each day grew 
twain in her loneness ; 
Yea, and the twain were lengthened to four 
by the idleness that she must bear. 

So that it seemed that the moon long wont to 
hasten its journey. 
Passing the stars by night in its endless search 
for a goal. 
Now grew tardy and slow, and paused as it 
were in sorrow ; 
Till at last, in the wreck of days, the 111 Voice 
stood by her soul : 

** Woman, didst thou do well to refuse the man 
who came nigh thee. 
Just since thy fancy's dream and his flesh 
were other and twain ? 
He was fashioned a man, could have wrought 
with thee as with a woman ; 
Then though he were but an alien to thee, 
yet a goal for thy love would remain. 



— 40 — 

'* 'Twould have been thy dehght, and He who 
forgot would not hate thee. 
What if he come again ? — for he knows the 
way to thy home — " 
"Nay," she cried in her strength, '^ Jiis steps 
will not turn again hither. 
But another — and let me not blush — I know 
he will surely come." 

Ev'n to the last too pure to go a-whoring with 
shadows, 
Quickly to flee from her thoughts she turned 
and went out-a-door. 
In her hand was a weapon, for she would go to 
the hunting ; 
Thus she busied herself with that she seldom 
had done before. 

Till as the time wore on, her hands grew rude 
with the hunting. 
Wholly her life seemed changed, but the old 
life was covered up there. 
What she always had hoped lay hidden deep in 
her bosom ; 
Only she whiled the time away to save herself 
from despair. 

Yet she was verging on change and found a love 
for the hunting; 
Till it chanced one night that she slept 'neath 
the open sky, 
Far away in the woods, and the next day willed 
to go farther. 
Soon she paused by a gliding brook and 
watched the waters go by. 



I 



-- 41 -. 

" Shall I step over," she thought, '* or return at 
once to the dwelling? 
Why should 1 follow the chase when it's not 
for the flesh that I care ? 
If I return not at once, 'tis another night in the 
forest. 
What if he come to the home to day and I be 
not ready there ! " 

So she turned to the dwelling ; the steps of her 
feet came faster, 
Faster than they had been when her face was 
the other way. 
Hurriedly came her breath, as it had not come 
in a long time. 
Till she reached her empty home and waited 
the livelong day. 

Then a day and a day and the days that fol- 
lowed she waited. 
Till her hope grew weak and trembled, but 
filled her still. 
Few small things she did that came to use her 
attention. 
Till she bethought her to weave at the loom, 
yet could not weave with a will. 

Slowly she drew the thread and swung the beam 
as the craft is. 
"It is for lover," she thought, " a garment 
that he shall wear." 
So her thoughts came in and drew her mind 
from the weaving. 
Ever between her look and the work crept the 
dreamland faces fair. 



— 42 — 

Till she went to the door and left the labor un- 
finished. 
" What though he come to-day ? I shall not 
see him in need. 
Morrow when he shall come, 'tis then I shall 
finish the garment. 
He shall stand beside me the while and shall 
watch the shuttle speed. 

** Arid he shall love me then, and stooping adown 

shall kiss me ; 
And I shall question him naught if only he 

ask for love. 
But I shall tell him yea, and when I look up he 

shall clasp me. 
Thus will I raise my unclad arms and cling to 

his neck above." 

So she lifted her arms and watched to behold 
them tremble, 
Hasted the flow of her breath, and said, " It 
will all be so, — 
Why am I not more thrilled ? for oft has it been 
in the past time ! 
So" — she arose — "my heart to his heart, 
shall I feel its throbbing glow ! " 

It was a mockery, sooth ; it seemed to her so as 
she stood there. 
Harshly into the air her laugh rang bitter and 
keen. 
" If ' he' should see me now he would think I 
was blessing a rival ! 
This same rival is right thin air, and yet — it 
is worthy, I ween ! " 



Bearing a dull cold ache she turned from the 
door, and behind her 
Dropped the curtain in place and sat her down 
in the gloom. 
All day long she sat, and all day long of the 
miOrrow ; 
Rising only to take cold food she wearied her- 
self in the room. 

For she dreaded to look without at the paths 
of the forest. 
Every chance little sound sent her listening 
nerves a thrill. 
'Twas but a falling leaf that rustled against the 
dwelling ; 
Over her frame the shudder ran, but she sat 
in silence still. 

'*Nay, I will not look without. For often 
enough I have done it ; 
I can endure it no longer. When truly he 
comes, I will greet." 
But when night came on her taut nerves slacked 
with exhaustion. 
And she sank to a slumber, but tossed, and 
found no whole rest sweet. 

It was another day, and weary she rose in the 
morning. 
'Round her the room in gathered dirt and 
confusion lay. 
It was the time to cleanse, but now she dreaded 
to touch it. 
"It would be ill that he find it thus — But 
he will not come to-day. 



— 44 — 

"I will do it to-morrow ; there is no haste for the 
present." 
But when the morrow was come the listless 
mood was strong. 
Yet she cleansed in part, but did not search for 
the corners ; 
Then she loitered and wondered why the 
droning hours were so long. 

It was another day, and she must go to the for- 
est, 
For the food was now ripened, and she must 
garner it in. 
Ere she started she ate and did the work of the 
morning ; 
Chance-wise she felt of the locks of her head 
and slid her fingers between. 

Somewhat tangled and rude they were from a 
night of tossing. 
"Oft have I dressed this hair, and haply to 
little avail. 
He will not come to-day; and I must haste to 
the labor. 
Just this once I will let it pass ; to-morrow I 
will not fail." 

Toiling the day went by, and another, and it was 
the even ; 
Dust-stain, toil-stain, heat-stain covered her 
body o'er. 
" I'll not bathe me tonight, for to-morrow again 
I must soil me. 
Then when all this work is done, I will cleanse 
me and be as before." 



— 45 — 

For her task had been grievous, and weary she 
turned to her pillow ; 
Yet her heart seemed whispering, "Nay, but 
thy custom keep." 
Only her feet and her arms, arising, she passed 
through the water ; 
Lay, and her most soiled outer garb she cast 
away from her sleep. 

It was another day, and the best of the harvest 
was over ; 
Yet she could gather more by searching 
here and there. 
" Have I enough in store to furnish me safe for 
the winter? 
What if the stranger should come and be 
mine? Then have T enough to share? 

•'There is a plenty for me, and he will not come 
for a long time ; 
'Tis not the season of chase till the moons ot 
the winter shall roll. 
And if perchance he should come, he may bring 
food from his hunting." 
So she returned to her rain-beaten home, and 
idleness seized her soul. 



Sleep, my song, till the winter, that came in 
terrible fierceness. 
Out in the forest the blizzard screamed and 
writhed and whirled. 
Many a year had it been since ever so stern a 
freezing. 
'Round the building the tempest drave and 
down through the wind-eye swirled. 



— 46 ~— 

There in the room the woman was crouching 
beside her pallet. 
Feebly the blaze of light wood fought with 
the eager air. 
All the cloth in the dwelling was huddled closely 
around her, 
Yet her feet and her fingers were numb. She 
had not strength to despair. 

But she waited on dumbly and only rose when 
it must be. 
Long her lips had been silent; she suffered 
and gave no cry. 
Ah ! an' that winter lingered and clung to the 
earth as never ! 
Yea, and hunger pinched her form ere the 
dawning of spring was nigh ! 

But it was over at last and she found wherewith 
she could feed her. 
Thus in the woods one day she knelt by a 
placid stream. 
Then she beheld her face and the marks of loss 
that had scarred it, 
And she sickened to feel it was real and not 
but a watery dream. 

There for a moment she gazed and the pain cut 
deeper her features. 
Then she lifted her hand and smote the water's 
face. 
"Hide thee! show me no more my features, 
impudent water! 
Ha! hast wrinkles too? They'll heal, but 
mine no time will erase !" 



— 47 - 



Then she arose,, not sighing, and dragged her 
feet to the dvvelHng ; 
Paused for a moment without ere she Hfted 
the curtain of skin. 
" He will never come ! And why should I reck 
though it be so ? 
Time will slay me ; I give it up ! " And so 
she passed within. 

Time did not cease its flight when the woman 
ceased to regard it. 
Still did the turning skies look down on the 
lonely cot. 
Few were the seasons that passed, but each in 
her aimless drifting 
Wrought in her life the work of twain ; she 
withered and heeded it not. 

Yea, her frame grew rigid, her step grew leaden 
and heavy. 
'Twas not the stress of years ; her woman- 
hood's span had been biief. 
Twas that her better self did shrink and shrivel 
within her. 
Dreading the pain that had made up its life it 
sought in death for relief. 

Yet it could not escape the pangs of its own dis- 
solution. 
Long it slumbered, though dying, but woke 
at the last in pain. 
It was a winter's day, not cold, but mild in its 
crispness. 
Still was the air, and after the sun had set from 
its journey again, 



— 48 — 

Softly the wester eve its mantle threw o'er the 
forest ; 
Softly rose the moon, and, glinting the 
boughs between. 
Lit a palace of ice, all pearls and diamonds and 
torches. 
Yearnfully beckoned the shadows, and flick- 
ered away in the moonlight sheen. 

There without at the doorway the woman was 
standing, and saw it. 
Then she paused and remembered, and agony 
filled her soul. 
All the ghosts of hopes came thronging back to 
her vision, 
Till she trembled and turned from the door in 
grief she could not control. 

'Twas not wholly despair, — for had she a hope 
to despair of? 
Nor was it yet the return of the longing that 
smote her before. 
It was a gasping for life, a strong recoil from her 
deadness. 
It was a longing for a longing, to feel what 
she felt of yore. 

Still the tempest raged within her enfeebled 
spirit, 
Fleeing the pain of life and dreading the pain 
of death ; 
Till, more quickly exhausted, she dropped her- 
self on the pallet, 
Thinking thoughts of wretchedness and dis- 
mally drawing her breath. 



— 49 — 

So as she lay and mourned, she saw the stars 
through the wind-eye, 
Deemed it was they had betrayed her and 
shrank away from their sight. 
Mightier soon than pain she found the behest of 
habit, 
Drowned her sorrow in hazy sleep. And it 
was a weary night ! 



IX. 



'Twas 'pon an autumn day ; a deer far out in 
the forest 
Fled as 'twere for its life, and looked not back 
in its flight, 
Bounding now through the thicket atid now 
where the forest lies open ; 
Now it meets a deserted path, leaps over, is 
gone from sight. 

Hunter, what of thy face, as thou chasest the 
fleet deer's foot-prints ? 
Something manly and true — Look ! why does 
he pause as he speeds? 
Is it even a path ? He stoops and carefully 
scans it ; 
Leaving the deer to seek for its own, he 
follows the path where it leads. 



— 50 — 

Why in the old abode should the woman that 
one idle morning 
Dream of her childhood days, that seemed 
forgot long ago? 
Look ! the eddying breeze is whirling the leaves 
on the pathway ; 
Now to the house and now to the woods they 
waver to and fro. 

And as she sits, still dreaming, the steps draw 
nigh to the doorway ; 
Now he stands at the curtain, looks in, be- 
holding it all. 
" Woman," he said, but she heard not, or made 
it a part of her dreaming ; 
Undisturbed by thoughts of the real she sat, 
not heeding his call. 

*' Woman ! " he cried again. All slow she arose 
and faced him, 
Helplessly looked at the doorway. Ah ! 'twas 
a vacant gaze ! 
Haggard and worn was her visage ; he marked 
it all as he watched her. 
Slowly she 'gan to tremble, slowly the light 
dawned in on her daze. 

Strange was the glance of his face ; he wondered 
after the woman. 
Moved, and she saw him move, as he offered 
to enter the door. 
'* Woman, may I come in and rest me awhile in 
thy dwelling? " 
Then she gave one lonely cry, and swooning 
fell to the floor. 



— 51 



Later this selfsame day they sat with the coals 
between them. 
Shaken and weak was her frame, her face as 
pale as the dead. 
'* Why should my coming so smite thee ?" Still 
she answered him nothing. 
''Long thou art sitting and watching me, wo- 
i^an— " " Sir, I have dreamed," she said. 

Then did he gaze at her face, all earnestly search- 
ing its features. 
"Girl, thou wast lovely once, yea, lovely — 
long ago !" 
- Sir, say it not !" she said. *' What thou know- 
est not, I remember." 
"Is it that two-score years," he thought, 
" have smitten her life? Not so." 

Long he sat in the silence and gazed at the coals 
before him. 
Out of his sight she stood, and half forgot her 
despair ; 
Smiling weak, like a child that is yearning out 
of its sickness. 
Toward him stretched her idle hands as she 
watched him sitting there. 

But when he moved just a finger, she thought 
of herself and shuddered. 
" Should I mock as a fool, and dream of youth 
again ? 
Nay, I love him not,— I only would that I loved 
. ' him!" 

Shrank to herself Hke a last year's leaf ; he 
looked ; in her face was pain. 



— 52 — 

"Woman, hast thou been here — " "Sir, hold 
thy peace, for I bid thee !" 
"Tell me, what is thy life?" She waited; 
" Death !" she said. 
Then they sat by the coals and did not speak 
for a long time. 
"Woman, I would thou wert not old!" She 
heard, but her heart had fled. 

" Silence ! I bid thee silence ! And thou must 
leave, or I hate thee !" 
" Yea, I must leave," he said, " and go my 
way to the chase." 
Soon he arose from his seat; she trembled and 
longed to make answer, 
Watched his movements one by one, and 
watched the lines on his face ; 

Watched him take his weapon, and gird himself 
for the going, 
Watched him pause ere he went, as if he would 
fain say more ; 
"Sir, remember not; forget the cot in the for- 
est!" 
But he answered her never a word ; he gazed, 
and passed from the door. 

Then she stood by the curtain and watched 
adown the pathway ; 
Strangely out to the forest her heart was torn 
and drawn. 
Shading her brow with her hand, she gazed at the 
vanishing footsteps. 
Now the branches have gathered between and 
hidden the last, — he is gone! 



— 53 — 

Still as the dead she stood, then stretched her 
hands toward the forest. 
Something broke in her heart and checked 
the starting tear. 
Rose her helpless cry, ''Come back! Come 
back! For I love thee!" 
But no ear gave heed to her voice. The 
leaves were brown and sere ! 



X. 



Wildly the frozen wind is whirling on through 
the forest, 
Sweeping the hard, cold earth and searching 
everywhere, 
Tossing the naked boughs, and bellowing, sigh- 
ing, sobbing. 
Raising the voice of desolation, voice of the 
empty air. 

Here is the old abode, and the wind is surging 
around it. 
All time-eaten it stands, and quivering, tem- 
pest-tossed. 
Hark! no sound from within! 'Tis the wind 
that is moaning and crying! 
Wildly rises the smoke from the wind-eye, 
wavers in air, and is lost. 



— 54 — 

Look not within, dead song ; despair is better 
unheeded ! 
Look not in at the woman, crouching — nay, 
look not ! 
Search not into her heart ; the air shall tell of the 
anguish ! 
Only the wind at the roof-hole now may peer 
in the lonely cot. 

— Still the wind swept on, low moaning over the 
building,- 
Wailing of things that it knew not, ceaseless 
by night, by day. 
Wildly the blue smoke rose, and wavered, beck- 
oning, yearning ; 
Ah ! none saw ! no answer came, while life's 
years ebbed away ! 



THE END. 



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